So It Goes
by Blue McLain
Summary: They turn to each other for comfort. It is a given. But as time goes by and this arrangement gets more and more natural, they start to wonder if it's actually just about that. M/R Slash.
1. Safe and strong

Hello again, everyone!

I have come up with something new again actually quite some time ago now. It's not what I wanted to upload next, to be honest (I'm still working on that), but this cute little thing here occured while I tried to kill some time in university. It's going to be three chapters long, though I'm not quite finished yet. Just something light, so don't expect too much depth on this one.

This is _Slash_, just so you know.

Enjoy!

* * *

**_A sanctuary safe and strong._**

O~O

It is late at night when he finally arrives.

At least, that is what you assume in retrospective. You cannot really tell for sure and it doesn't matter all that much, anyway. You are already asleep, passed out as soon as your head hit the pillow. The case was tiring, the hotel beds were left unused, the coffee was nothing but watery black ink and you don't know whether the women you saved will be able to turn off the lights around them ever again.

Clooney is snoring at your feet. Normally, you don't allow him in your bed but more often than not he still sneaks up on you, and today his presence is comforting in a way. You patted the place beside you and Clooney jumped up on top of the blankets to settle somewhere near you.

Now, it is late at night (you think) and you stir in your sleep as Clooney raises his head about two minutes before there is even any sound.

He is staring alertly at the bedroom door, ears twitching, snuffling. But he stays silent enough for you to slip back into sleep completely. It is a blissfully dreamless sleep which is never really disturbed that night, not even by the key that hits the keyhole. Reid has arrived and Clooney is off of the bed and out of the bedroom in no time. You shift a little, burying your face further in the pillows and that's it.

Reid types in a code into an input field before shoving the front door key into the fitting hole. It is part of your safety system. If somebody would try to unlock the door without typing in the code (whether by using a key or a lock pick) the alarm would go off. You have given Reid the code written on a piece of paper, along with the house key, months ago.

He didn't even let pass five minutes then, just took a quick look at the note and burned it right away, the figures for your safety system forever engraved in that amazing brain of his.

So now, he types in the code and shoves the key into the hole to unlock the door to slide inside like a shadow. Closing the door, he punches in the code in to a second input field to lock it again. He is doing it quietly, and even though it is pretty much useless because you don't hear him, you still can appreciate the gesture.

There is a soft sound, signaling that the alarm is set again. Even softer footsteps announce Clooney and not a moment later, almost without a warning, Reid feels the dog's paws as Clooney tries to climb him. A muffled bark greets Reid and he is pressed to the door while Clooney wags his tail happily.

Reid sinks to his knees, wanting to calm the dog down, and is nudged and practically toppled over.

Another bark, louder and more demanding, and Reid hushes him with his finger on his lips. "Come on, buddy, it's alright," he whispers, "don't wake up your daddy." Crouching on the ground, Reid is face to face with Clooney and they look at each other before Clooney licks a long stripe across his cheek like a wet welcome home kiss.

Well, maybe not a 'welcome home' but rather a 'welcome back, long time no see'.

Reid pats the fur and the silence returns. Clooney still pants, almost grinning, and nudges his face again with his wet nose. The dog is obviously thrilled to see Reid. He is not fighting him off, he never tried to do that, ever. And when Clooney huffs almost encouragingly and Reid wipes his eyes and downright hugs him, everything is silent and calm and almost okay.

You have never understood what this is with Clooney and Reid. You have never understood what it is about Reid that makes every dog near him go nuts and that makes Clooney go nuts as well, but in a good way, because by now, he is restless with happiness every time Reid is around.

Right now, though, with Reid hugging Clooney because the dog is the only thing there to hold onto, no one cares.

The previous case has been exhausting in more ways than one. Not particularly long but intense and without a chance to take even a short break. A hunt with too much hunters and far too much victims as the prey, that found its end in a maze of victims, darkness and a killer going absolutely berserk.

That Reid had been the one to find both a victim and the Unsub and that neither him nor anyone else had been able to safe that last woman… it has taken its toll on everybody.

It was only a matter of time for Reid to show up here. You don't know whether he knows that you yourself would want him to come to you all the way till the end, but you do know exactly that he won't.

Yet.

It is enough for you that he showed up at all by himself (it is for now, anyway) and that he seeks comfort in Clooney and your home for the time being.

Reid takes a deep breath and shoves Clooney away to stand up. He brought his Go Bag with him like he always does, and like always he leaves it in the hall. Your house is dark and quiet, all lights are out except for one left in the living room. It shines dimly but steadily as it shines every night. A sign for Reid that he is welcome here at all times.

He can come to you whenever he wants to. Whenever he needs to. Here will always a light be shining for him.

Clooney follows him hot on the heels, not yet able to overcome his joy. Additionally to the little lamp next to the couch, Reid turns on another one at the end of the room. It is still rather dark and the light won't reach the bedroom upstairs anyway (whether the door is open or not), but just like the thing with the door, you can appreciate it.

You turn around a bit, lying on your back now, and Reid, as if he has felt your movement, raises his head and looks in the direction of the master bedroom. It doesn't even last three heartbeats and Reid shakes his head because of his self-declared momentarily foolishness.

Out of routine (and one day, you will take your time to think about the fact that you and him already have routines going here) Reid walks past the couch into the kitchen to check up on Clooney's water and food. He skips the former and adds some to the latter and makes Clooney love him that much more when he grants him one of the dog biscuits.

After all, you know Reid knows that dogs are indeed able to sense tension and stuff around themselves (even though he would disagree and argue now, because they don't actually _sense _it).

"You're good?" Reid asks Clooney, and the dog snorts and shakes his head and the rest of his body, too, and prances a bit around him. A nudge, a bark, a shush from Reid, and boy, was it surprising that Clooney loves him so much. "I'll take that as a yes," Reid murmurs with a half smile.

A fucked up case, for Reid who had to watch the last woman die even more horrible than for you or the rest of the team.

He couldn't stay in his apartment. Although it is not much of a difference, because he was alone there and he is alone here (aside from Clooney), too, it makes him feel better. Once, he tried to explain it to you, when your arrangement was still new for the both (or three) of you, and even without it you can comprehend it, you think.

And anyway, you would be the last person to tell him not to come over.

He pours himself a glass of water before he leaves the kitchen again. Blankets and a pillow are stored in a shelf in the cubby beneath the stairs.

It doesn't take long for him to prepare his bed for the night. Your couch is big enough for two people to get more or less comfortable, and so Reid doesn't object when Clooney jumps on top of the blankets at the foot of it.

The lamp Reid turned on just minutes ago is turned off again, but the light you always let shine for him remains. Reid dims it a bit more, because he lies with his face towards it, but he doesn't shut it off. Well, who could blame him, really? Only hours ago, in the pitch black darkness, there still was enough light for Reid to watch how the last woman died, throat slit open in a deadly bloody grin, before the Unsub who did it just moments ago got shot by Reid, seconds later.

But still, too late.

He couldn't safe her. Nobody could have saved her, but this isn't important. It has been Reid who couldn't safe her. You know it isn't his fault and maybe he knows that, too. But still, he was too late.

He can see it when he closes his eyes. Everything. He can see the woman lying there, bleeding out, half naked and visibly abused, and he can see the Unsub going down right after. He can see the blood. He can smell death and he can hear the shot going off of his own gun, taking yet another life. He is going to lie here a long time, wide awake.

Yet eventually, exhaustion takes over. It always does, sometimes sooner, sometimes later. Clooney is warming his feet and his breathing weight is comforting and grounding just as it has been for you. Facing the living room, facing the couch table and his glass of water, Reid's blinking rate slows down with time passing by. His lids remain closed longer, his eyes are barely open, only slits, and after minutes and hours of replaying the horrors of the day in his head, his brain starts to shut down due to mere depletion. His blinking gets so slow, it would be almost hypnotizing.

And somewhere along the night while lying on your couch with your dog as a protective guardian, Reid's mind becomes numb and he is able to close his eyes for good.

He won't notice until he wakes up in the morning.

You, as a matter of fact, beat him to that. It is 7:56, almost eight in the morning, when you wake up, and the first glimpse of sunlight falls through the window. The sky is slightly clouded and shades of red, blue and light orange paint the sunrise. You lie on your back and just watch it for a moment, until you remember that the alarm is going to go off in about three minutes.

You reach out to shut it, forehandedly, because you obviously don't need it anymore. Though you are still tired and still feel like sleeping on, you only allow yourself to enjoy this state of mind that is hazed with warmth and sleep and burning eyes for a few moments longer.

Forcing out a deep breath, you wipe a hand across your face and further up your shaved scalp. Your skin feels more or less like one big stubble. You move your feet and you notice there is no obstacle. Clooney is gone. Your own dog abandoned you. He would only do this for two reasons, and since you cannot hear him walking around somewhere downstairs, you assume it has nothing to do with him being hungry or thirsty.

Looking at the door, looking at the empty space next to you, you don't know what to feel exactly while you think about that neither Clooney nor anybody else is occupying the bedside on your left. (Though it is not about anybody, it is about Reid not being here. Not anybody, but Reid.)

With a sigh, you shove your legs out of the bed to stand up. It is a bit chilly in your bedroom and a shiver runs down your spine all the way down to your calves, only wearing black boxer briefs.

You step outside the bedroom and rub your shoulders, and you can spot a figure on your couch as soon as you reach the half landing of the stairs. Walking down slowly, quietly, you recognize a pile of blankets. On top of them lies Clooney and raises his head, almost watching you warily, still alertly, even with it being just you coming near Reid.

At night, when Reid chooses to come here, he is Clooney's to protect.

"Calm down, traitor, 's just me," you mumble and Clooney snorts. "Down, come on," you order and your dog obeys, jumps off and disappears into the kitchen. As soon as he is out of view, you can hear him drink, a low burbling of water betraying it.

Reid's legs are free and he turns in his sleep, facing the back rest now. The lamp beside his head still spreads its light and your touch the base to turn it off. He doesn't even stir. The blankets are pulled up all the way to his chin and his breathing stays even.

His face is pale in the morning light and the shadows under his eyes are visible, never really disappearing. You are looking at them for a long time, longer than your realize, and you don't notice how your rest your arms on the back of the couch until you do.

Leaning relaxed against the sofa, you tilt your head a little to the right, getting a better angle to look at Reid's face. Young. Calm. Innocent, but not too much. Most of all, he looks peaceful in a way you haver never seen, unless he is sleeping here. Protected by Clooney, guided by the light that is always shining for him and not more than a call, a few steps away from you.

It is good enough for now, still, but it is not enough.

You lift your hand and reach out for him, barely touching his face. Your fingertips brush his hair and then you stroke the bridge of his nose with the backside of your pointer.

Deliberating movements, slow, idly, and you smile as Reid doesn't flinch away but rather leans into your touch. He is not much for physical contact, much less if he is not expecting it, but with you touching him, it seems to be alright.

You move your finger from between his eyebrows down to the tip of his nose and back up again until it wakes him up.

He presses his head into the cushion unwillingly before blinking his eyes open, and you draw your hand back. Reid doesn't tense up, not one second. He stares blankly ahead, then lifts his eyes to your face, without moving more than absolutely necessary.

"Good morning," he greets quietly and the blankets rustle as he curls up into himself a little more.

"Mornin'," you reply, your smile leaving your lips to crawl into your eyes. Your features soften, seeing him in his most vulnerable state of being and trusting you enough not to hurt him there. As if you would ever do that. "Had a rough night?" you ask, just to say something. As if you wouldn't know.

"A little," he admits, and that much is obvious. Without a rough night, Reid wouldn't come to you.

Yet, at least, but this thought is still kind of bitter, as much as it is thrilling. Because instead of suffering alone and in silence, he comes to you. He doesn't turn to someone else but you, always you, without questioning it. He confides in your, trusts you and you know Reid's rough nights end the moment he enters your home. It is just a bit sad that it takes Reid suffering for him to show up.

And for a second, while he looks up at you and you look down at him, there is this awkward little feeling you get now and then, lately (and _lately_ meaning quite some time, now). As if you have gone too far or as if you still have some distance to go, and you just cannot decide which it is.

You stroke some hair out of his eyes and even now, while in full awareness, he doesn't flinch away. Your fingers linger a heartbeat too long, brush a little too much skin, and this awkward little feeling gets more intense. When Reid clears his throat and you look down at your toes, you know you have gone too far, not far enough.

Clooney barks and you hear his paws scratching the back door. Reid rubs his face and whatever has been there between you and him is not there anymore.

Stepping back, you head off to the kitchen to let Clooney out into the back yard. The floor is cold under your bare feet and behind you the blankets rustle again as Reid sits up. Clooney nudges the hollow of your knee, excitement radiating off of him, and he is off and away as soon as the door opens enough for him to push through.

You lean against the counter, wiping your eyes, still needing to fully wake up. It is chilly in here as well, the brisk air making the hair on your arms stand upright in goosebumps. Coffee would be a good idea or a hot shover or a few more hours of decent dreamless sleep.

Before you can get down to any of it, you hear faint footsteps and when you look up, Reid is standing in the doorway.

He is wearing his usual clothes and you are used to that. When he comes here, when he sleeps on your couch, he wears normal pants and a button down shirt, alternately with or without a sweater vest. No tie, mind you, but still mismatched socks. His Go Bag provides a set of change, additionally to the basics you all carry with you. Shaking your head, you stretch your shoulders while watching him.

"If you're short of PJ's, man , I can lend you some," you say, your stiff muscles aching almost pleasantly. "Honestly, Kid, this can't be comfortable."

At least, he got rid of his belt, you notice. But still, sleeping on your couch in his street clothes… man.

"It's not about being comfortable," he replies, sounding not even off-handedly but quite naturally, as if explaining to you that rain, as a matter of fact, feels actually wet.

And you know that this is not about being comfortable here. You seldom admit it and it is even rarer that he does, but you know it. He does, too. This is not about being comfortable. This is about being here, about being somewhere where he doesn't have to be afraid to close his eyes. This is about him being able to at least try to fall asleep, even if he feels like he cannot do it.

This is about being near someone he trusts utterly and implicitly, and that someone happens to be you.

It is honoring and offbeat and so ironic that it happens to be you, you think sometimes, because you so much epitomize what he has learned to fear (again, who could blame him?).

You don't know how or what to reply but you are willing to try it anyway. A barking Clooney won't let you, though, interrupting you before you even got started. And because Reid and Clooney seem to share an invisible bond, Clooney comes running back into the kitchen just as Reid takes another step towards you.

Barking and jumping and ignoring you completely, your dog dashes past you and is all over Reid in an instant.

The Kid kneels down to pet him, knowing it is the only way to calm Clooney down in his excitement. He gives in so easily. You watch with a half smirk how Reid tries to shove the dog away that bounces back and forth to get Reid to play with him more enthusiastically.

"Can you explain that to me, Doctor?" you ask with mock disbelief as Clooney licks a long stripe right across his face (he insists on his 'welcome back' kisses as well as on his 'good morning, it's been so long and I've missed you so much' kisses).

Reid cringes and pushes the dog's head away (gently, of course), fond disgust betraying his rejection. "Your dog loves me?" he offers with a brilliant little smile that always tugs on something inside you that you cannot quite name.

"Yeah," you laugh, voice so much softer that it has any right to be. "Every dog you meet freaks out and just my dog of all people loves you to pieces."

"Of all _people_," Reid snorts with an unwilling smile, probably being at odds with semantics, while Clooney puts his paws up his shoulders as if asking him to dance, muzzle stretched open in a tongue dangling grin.

"Cloons," you call out, kind of exhorting, because the dog can be a little bit too much to handle sometimes and because you can see dirt on Reid's shirt where Clooney pawed him. "Clooney!," you say again when he doesn't react, firmer this time.

There is a slight whining noise and your dog's ears twitch as he sinks to the ground ad steps back. "Sit," you order and he obeys right away, rear hitting the ground and tail waging carefully from one side to the other. Looking back and forth between you and Reid and waiting for something to happen, you can sense as well as see he is twitchy with energy.

Slowly, Reid stands up and Clooney wants to, too. "Don't even," you say in a low voice and the dog sinks back. Reid seems to be pretty amused by all that, a smile ghosting over his features, making his pale face glow in an unusual way. This is something meant to be looked at more than once.

It works for you. Every single time.

You clear your throat unobtrusively and walk up to Clooney to grab him by his collar. "Go and live it up outside," you say and lead him to the still open door. "Way too early for you to be that annoying." He is willingly lead out while Reid steps to the coffee maker, starting to collect what he needs to make his life elixir.

Moving your arms in circles to loosen the muscles there, turning around, watching his back, you wonder about the situation displaying in front of you. Reid moves so easy in your home, without over-thinking it, without being all self-conscious about it. As if he belongs here.

Well, in fact, he does. Or he could. Or whatever. You don't know what exactly, but it looks good, and maybe, probably, you should freak out at how naturally he seems to fit in here and at how little it disturbs you. But the thing is: you are past it, past freaking out. Maybe you should freak out because you are not freaking out.

But you don't.

Right now you simply try to figure out what it means. To him. To you. You try to figure out what this is. Or could be. Or whatever.

Noticing Clooney's bowl still half filled with food, you sigh, smiling though. "You're spoiling my dog, man," you say light-heartedly, leaning against the counter, a few steps away from Reid.

That makes him prick up his ears, but he doesn't look at you. "Excuse me, what?" he asks, and you can see the grin he tries to fight crincle his eyes. "And just how am I spoiling your dog, you think?"

You cross your arms loose above your chest, leaning your head against one of the wall cupboards. "I don't know how you're doing it, Reid, are you hiding steaks somewhere beneath all those layers o' yours?" you ask back. "All the time I'm waiting for the Reid-effect to catch up and all I get is my dog adoring you like there's no tomorrow."

It is always quite fascinating to watch Reid fix the coffee. He uses more coffee powder than you do. He uses one pinch of salt or sometimes even two. He uses at least one piece of dark chocolate, putting it in the filter on top of the powder. And even though you can never really name the difference, there is still no coffee that tastes like Reid's coffee tastes.

"Clooney seems to have good taste," Reid says, serious for only a second before he laughs softly to weaken his previous statement. Maybe he didn't even meant to do so. Still, he laughs about his own words, laughs them off.

You need a moment to find you way back into the conversation, to understand what he is talking about. Dogs freaking out. Reid-effect. Clooney loving Reid despite the Reid-effect. Clooney having good taste for loving Reid.

Right. And yeah, maybe.

Maybe he does have a good taste. Clooney is _your_ dog after all. And he is a smart dog. And you like to thing that you are a smart master as well. And since you might have a thing for Reid, too, maybe it is natural for Clooney to… well, at least it is quite convenient.

It is good to know Clooney gives his blessing. To whatever you might need it.

The sound of coffee dripping into the pot and its fresh, heavy scent fill the air, and you watch Reid watching the coffee maker. He looks tired, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and he could most definitely use some more hours of sleep, even more so than you do.

"You came here pretty late, didn't you," you ask, but it doesn't sound like a question because you already know the answer. Reid always comes here late, if he shows up at all. Lately, he does that more often, though.

Reid doesn't look at you, eyes fixed to the black liquid. "I wasn't sure I should come," he answers off-handedly. As if it would be a normal thing to think that he is not welcome here.

"What? Why not?" you ask.

Now he looks at you from the side, head turned just enough to take you into focus. He seems distant, which is rare because distance between you and him disappeared over the years and nowadays Reid is one of the people closest to you. Closer than most. Almost anyone.

"I can't just come here every time I have… a bad night, I mean I… I shouldn't just come here, what if…," he trails off, without sounding like really trailing off because h sounds like he simply stops talking.

"What if what?" you ask. You can guess what he is about to say and you don't quite know what to think about it, too much feelings cursing too fast through your mind to name one.

Reid is watching the coffee maker again. He is unwilling to tell you more. That is what his expression is telling you. "Reid," you say a little urgently and step away from your side of the counter. He rests both his hand on top of the counter, back towards you, facing the machine. "Man, you know you can always come here, Pretty Boy."

Hearing his nickname, he turns his head a little that the tip of his noise is visible for you. "I know that you think that," he answers, "and I appreciate it very much but I can't do that. You know that, too. What if you're with someone? I can't just… intrude like that."

You haven't been with someone in weeks. Months, even. And even before that, never in a serious way, never for more than having a little fun or simply fucking or trying to forget on both sides. Maybe Reid knows. Maybe he doesn't. You think he does. And since you think he knows, there hasn't been anyone. It just wasn't possible, somehow.

He doesn't move, waiting for an answer, and what can you say? It is so obvious, isn't it? "Reid, you know you're not intruding."

"What if you'd meet a girl you like?" he asks, and it is so strange that he acknowledges the possibility for you while he doesn't even seem to be interested in that himself. To find a girl he likes. To find someone he likes. He shifts his weight and lifts his shoulders a little. "What if you bring her here? She'd find it pretty strange for me to come here in the middle of the night as if this'd be a normal thing to do."

"Man, there's no girl," you say, staring at his back, because he should know. There is not anybody. There is you and Clooney. And him. "And I don't care about that. I told you to come here. That's not gonna change. I'd choose you over anybody." Anytime. Over any girl you could ever meet. Any someone out there. Because the one who is important is already here, right in front of you. And even though you didn't want to say the last part out loud, maybe it is good for him to know where you stand.

He doesn't react to your words, though. At least, you cannot see a reaction. Reid has always been the one to deal with things quietly for himself, because he had to for such a long time. Old habits die hard, you know that pretty damn well yourself.

Maybe that is what makes you take a step towards him.

But man, he should know. He should just know it. He is a friggin' genius with more degrees than should be possible and there are keep coming more. Reid should _know_. How come he doesn't? How come _you_ don't? You are in no position to blame him for something you are not sure about yourself, but… this is… man.

Suddenly, you are standing right in front of him. Or behind him, since it is his back that almost touches your chest.

Reid is as tall as you are and you stare at the base of his neck where pale skin shimmers through auburn hair. You like that. The girls you go out with, you dance with are naturally almost all shorter than you. This is cute and you like how they bring out the protector in you. But with Reid, where it never got physical but always was so very much more than skin-deep, it is a different thing. Your protective instinct reacts on a totally different level and you like that you are able to meet him on eye level in every meaning of the phrase.

One heartbeat you wait, two heartbeats eve,n and he doesn't react. He has to notice your presence breaching into his personal space bubble. You _want_ him to do something, to flinch away, to lean into you, to simply let you know what he wants and where you stand in his world.

But maybe you have to settle for the fact that he _doesn't_ do anything, that he _doesn't_ flinch away. Reid can be strange about this whole touching stuff. He doesn't trust just anyone. It took ages for the two of you to archive what you have today.

It takes all you have been through together for you to stand behind him now, so close, and for him not to shy away. His trust in you, the jock, the kind of guy he has learned to fear so much, is so comprehensive… just look at this, man.

Slowly, so slowly, you raise your hands and put them on the edge of the counter. Your fingers almost brush his and your arms encircle his body. He is trapped. He isn't but he is. He could feel trapped. He doesn't have to feel trapped, just one word and you would back off. You are afraid that he will do that, that this simple action gets thrown back in your face.

Reid keeps his head down and cranes his neck, unconsciously bringing it closer to your face, exposing it.

You lean in, your chest touching his shoulder blades. It feels nice. Reid is not curvy and soft, he is all slender and muscled in an unflashy way, straightforward in everything he is and does. You don't want to pull away. Apparently, he doesn't want you to, either.

The coffee maker bubbles, the last sounds before it gets silent. It is a fragile silence, a moment detached, something precious. A border you both need to cross to head right into unknown realms. With him, it might be alright. It might work.

With him.

Your nose and your mouth meet his hair and it is soft and smells… clean. A light scent you cannot quite describe but fits him. There is a tiny but sharp intake of breath on his side and you consider for a moment to pull away and to let him be and to pretend like that never happened.

His body seems a little tense and you imagine you feel heat radiating from him. More heat, that is. Giving him the opportunity to back out of this, you let your arms get loose, your grip easy enough to break.

But what if he does break free now? What do you do then? Pretend this never happened? Even though you _know_ it did? And you know that he knows it, too?

Waiting for the inevitable without having a clue what to do afterwards, your breathing goes slow and is filled with his scent and his warmth. Your pointer curls around his pinky and when it almost curls around yours, too, it is the last straw. Your grip around the edge tightens and suddenly, your body is plastered to his, your chest touches his shoulders, your belly touches his back, even your groin is pressed to his butt.

He presses back.

"Next time you get your ass under the covers," you murmur near his ear. Reid doesn't move a bit.

"I was under the covers," he says, sounding quiet but calm. Calm is good, you guess.

"Under the covers in a bed," you state more precisely, pressing further into him and enjoying that he stands his ground. Can this situation get any stranger? Here you are, trapping your genius co-worker you have a thing for, like, since forever, _with __your __body_, and yet you seem to be too much of a coward to properly take his hand.

"I can take the guest room, if you want me to," he answers, and his voice is breathy in the slightest way.

You push yourself up in a way you haven't expected. Suddenly, your front feels hot and your back gets cold and your eyes are closed. Your arms could encircle him so easily but they don't, and your face is buried in his hair.

"Under the covers in _my_ bed," you murmur. Quietly, oh so quietly. Maybe too quietly, maybe he didn't hear it. But you cannot repeat it, you don't know why or how but you know you can't.

He turns his head the tiniest bit to the left and all of a sudden your mouth is behind his ear just above this soft spot. It is such a new situation that you involuntarily open your eyes, staring blankly ahead. Confusing, pretty much so. Maybe _this_ is where it is too much, where you have lost control and went overboard.

Somehow, your lips behind his ear seem to be much more important than his ass against your groin.

It is very likely hat he snaps out of it now. This has to shake him awake. Just what are you doing, Derek? This is Reid here, your best friend, man. Are you trying to jump his bones right in your kitchen? But he still doesn't pull the brakes. Why doesn't he pull the brakes already? He must have noticed by now that this is quite serious for you. Doesn't he get that you aren't just joking around, that you really do mean it?

Get ahold of yourself, Derek, for god's sake.

You press your mouth against his ear. It is not even a real kiss, only a touch of particular skin and particular skin. Then, it is gone because you pull away. Your fingers slip out of his curled ones (they are _curled_, around _yours_) and you take a step back.

His heat is gone and you feel cold and Reid doesn't move and it is just what you have expected. Goddammit. What has gotten into you? You should have known that it is too much too soon. Or too little too late (which is somehow frightening).

There seems to be a gap between him and you, so suddenly and so deep that you feel like you are about to lose balance and fall right into it. You want to reach out for him, already raising your hand to put it on his back, between his shoulders where it has been more times than you can count. It hovers just above his shirt.

'I didn't mean it that way.'

'I meant it exactly that way.'

'I don't know if that's something you'd want, but if it is, I'm all for it.'

'I'd like to have dinner with you, with all that romantic crap, and then get all down and dirty with you, y'know.'

So many things you could say, but your jaw is clenched, the muscles so tense you cannot get a single word out. You want him to turn around and face you and smack you or kiss you or both. You don't care, just let him show a friggin' reaction.

But he doesn't and you don't, and you exhale slowly, averting your face. It is in that moment, though, that he aches his back against you. It is all in that moment that you look away and he meets you halfway and your hand sinks and your fingertips brush his spine.

It goes unnoticed and you step back. Really, you guys.

"I've dibs on the first shower," you let Reid know, and you find it rather difficult not to let your voice sound… funny.

You are kind of disappointed. You shouldn't. You have no idea what has gotten into you, and how could you blame Reid for not actively participating in your attempt to have almost-sex, electively on your kitchen table or right on the counter? Derek, man, have your lost your mind or what? What did you expect? Maybe all this tip-toeing around each other can do that to you. You wanted, you _needed_ to make a move, any move and since you are not willing to let this slip, full speed ahead was the only possible option.

'Full speed' might be discussible. The general direction as well.

Maybe this is something you don't have to worry for much longer, though. A thought you don't want to have, and you walk through the door, trying to shake it off. You are a profiler, for heaven's sake, and you are good at it. And there are things you simply cannot chalk up on whatever. You two _are_ close, undeniably so. The question is just: in which way?

Because (at least on your side) brotherly is far from it.

"Ten minutes max," you inform him to lighten the mood, to distract him and yourself from… _this_. "I'll save you some hot water."

A cold shover might just be what you need, you see. You leave the kitchen without looking back and your home seems somewhat colder now. Reid's faint "Thanks" rings in your ears and you bow your head but you don't stop. Next time, you don't back off, you swear to yourself. You won't force anything onto Reid, you would never to something like that. But there is something going on between you and him, something you think could be good, and you want to know where you two stand. Next time you are going to be just as straightforward.

Next time.

* * *

That's all for now. Two more parts to go.

Like always, I'm curious as to what you think about it, so let me know.

The next chapters will be similar in a way, of course, and it's totally and entirely focused on these two and their relationship, just in case you've been hoping for some action or something. Not this time, my pretties.

Thanks for reading and see you soon, hopefully.

Bluey

P.S.: Just in case you were wondering the title as well as the chapter headings are borrowed from the song "So it goes". If I'm not completely mistaken, the original was by Billy Joel. But here, I've bee listening to and referring to the version by Marianas Trench.


	2. My silence

Welcome back, everyone!

I'm so sorry for taking so long with the update. I actually wanted to have it done last week but then life had to put a crimp in and I had to prepare for presenting a paper and stuff like that and thus the update is delayed.

But here it is and it is still _Slash_! And it gets slashier by the paragraph here.

Enjoy!

* * *

_**My silence is my self-defense.**_

O~O

It is late at night when you finally arrive.

The sound of the engine dies down as you turn the ignition key, and silence and darkness engulf you, swallowing you whole. The air feels thick around you and you exhale slowly, letting your body go lax for only a moment. Your head tilts back until it hits the headrest of the seat and your tongue is pressed through your teeth, denting your left cheek. You are almost done, man, come on, you are almost there.

And with that in mind, you pick yourself up and climb out of your car, muscles too stiff, body too tired, almost too heavy to move. You drag yourself along the pavement and barely hear the faint beep of the central locking of your car.

It is past midnight, pitch-black and, arriving at the apartment building, you realize that the lights are flickering. The front door isn't locked, you can easily push it open. Absolutely great. You walk past the elevator, taking the stairs instead because you don't trust the machinery here, but apart from all that is wrong, everything is quite alright. But of course, when you reach the right floor, the lights are completely out and the switch doesn't change that.

The emergency lightning guides you through the corridor and shows vaguely where you have to be careful not to collide with the walls. The numbers on the doors shimmer darkly, and finally, you are standing in front of the right one. You exhale again, leaning against the door frame and making it creak with your full body weight, and you shove the key into the hole. Hopefully, Reid hasn't used the door chain, you think, while you simultaneously hope he has.

Since forever you try to get Reid to move someplace more secure, where the doors are locked and lights are working like they should. On duty, you are in enough danger at it is – at least in private, you should be allowed to feel somewhat safe.

But Reid says, he does feel safe. This is his home. So you try not to press too much and enjoy the times he really is safe with you, protected by a high-tech safety system and one hundred and thirty pounds of trained guard dog.

"C'mon," you murmur, thinking please and please don't, and then you push the door open. It goes unstopped by the chain and you puff out your breath relieved and defeated all at once.

Slipping inside, you wait a second for your eyes to adjust to the murkiness inside of Reid's apartment. It doesn't take long, in fact, because it is not that much brighter in the hall with the emergency lightning. Reid's own nightlight casts the living room in a greenish yellow light, and that is just as good.

You close the door, lock it and use the chain this time as well. No need not to use it. It is past midnight and behind you lies a week full of paperwork, and the nightlight glowing in the otherwise surrounding darkness here indicates that Reid has gone to bed already. That is okay for you. Very okay. You have expected that.

Feeling a little like running completely on autopilot, you shake off your leather jacket and kick off your shoes and wipe your face with both hands, without really realizing any of it.

It should be intruding or disturbing or at least awkward to be here after the last few days and in general, too. But it feels nothing but familiar when you recognize the faint smell of old books and everlasting coffee flavor in the air and you could stay here, you think, and indulge in it until the first glimpse of morning light and be as content as possible right now.

But your feet don't allow you any rest, dragging you forcefully through the tiny hall. Or, to be more accurate, your whole body screams for a rest and forces you to comply to that.

Stepping into the living room, you turn on the small reading light standing on a small end table next to the couch because you are not in the mood to stumble around in the darkness of Reid's apartment. The TV comes to live as well. It is an old device, tube even, because Reid doesn't really need the newest stuff with whatever gimmick there might be. And it is rare for everyone of you to spend enough time at home to enjoy trivial things such as watching TV. Apart from that and anyway, Reid is more the type who would read rather than numbly follow some TV show when he is alone. But he thinks a TV is required for a home to be called 'normal'.

And normal is something you all want.

You don't need more light to find the kitchen, for it is only an open niche, the size of half a room, next to the living room. It is not far and the fridge is not exactly empty, but it offers you nothing to your liking. You would love a beer now, it wouldn't even have to be cold. But you know you won't find any here, so you settle for some grape juice. This _is _indeed cold. Opening the bottle, the glass feels icy as you take a sip.

Your stomach rumbles and something similar to hunger tingles in the pit of it. You should probably eat something, since the last thing you ate was a donut for breakfast. But you don't feel hungry. With your fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, you shuffle back to the couch, falling heavily onto it.

And finally, _finally_, you feel like some of the pressure that weights onto you is lifted from your chest.

Taking another sip, you move your back that it cracks somewhere in your spine. Relax, man, will you? You made it. You are here, occupying the couch of your favorite boy genius, and right now, after all that happened, it can hardly get any better. Or at least, it could easily be much worse.

The TV whispers on the lowest level, unlikely to disturb Reid because even you barely hear a thing. And the door to his bedroom is closed, anyway. So you can enjoy the show that is pretty much muted. But it is enough to take your mind off of unpleasant things you don't want to think about now, and you watch a busty woman pace a foreign and too bright living room, while the man she is talking to doesn't move from his spot next to the piano. Good God, what the hell is this? Her bickering is a wavering rush of unheard words. He is holding a glass with Scotch or Cognac or Whiskey or whatever. You would like to have that, too. But you have to settle for oh so delicious grape juice.

Maybe you should talk to Reid about that sometime. But then on the other hand, there is enough stuff you should talk about with him sometime, right? Right.

The chick in that flick screams and cries tiny noises and her mascara runs down her cheeks in black trickles. Fake, absolutely. You grew up with two sisters, you know what a girl looks like when she cries while wearing make-up (and it takes some time to look that smeared up).

Then she slaps her equally talented co-star in his face, and that idiot smashes the glass he is holding to the ground where it shatters to pieces. On purpose. "Aww, man," you sigh at the sight of that unbelievable waste. There are men out there who would have wanted that drink. No need to squander it, not even to grab that blondie by her shoulders and kiss her. She doesn't even want to be kissed, she shoves him away and slaps him again. But he tries relentlessly, grabs her again and presses his mouth to hers. And suddenly, she wants to be kissed, seemingly.

That's quite fucked up, you think blankly. Slaps him two times and gets kissed for it. _You_ wouldn't want to kiss a woman like that. But to be honest, there are not much women out there who you would want to kiss at that moment.

Your head leans against the back of the couch and you move it a little, just the tiniest bit, in the direction of Reid's bedroom. He probably went to bed pretty early today and that was foreseeable from the start. No matter how much of a genius he is, there is a point where even he has to tire out after almost a week with nothing but paperwork.

It is funny how you sometimes imagine him to sleep in the middle of a chaotic pile of dozens and dozens of books when you know for a fact that Reid is actually rather neat. Neither his apartment nor his workspace is messy, they are just… too small, kind of. He needs to pile his belongings, his books and files and papers, to make them fit into the place he has available. Like his head sometimes seems too small for all the knowledge it contains, and he sometimes stumbles over his words because he wants to say too much at once. Something both that blonde woman and her masochistic lover probably never heard of.

And oh, look. While they are frantically kissing they get disturbed by yet another blonde lady and the shouting and screaming and crying continues. It gets freakier by the minute there.

A few more moments, you manage to sit upright as your lids get heavier every time you blink. Your body is so drained that its numbness finally starts to spread out into your mind and makes you sleepy. Took you long enough. But it simply wasn't possible for you to get here any sooner.

Your whole body pushes forward as you put the not even half empty bottle of grape juice on the coffee table in front of you. Lifting your ass a little, you pull out your wallet from your back pocket to chuck it next to it and it hits one of said piles of journals. You try to handle your phone more carefully, but it takes all the strength you have left for you to lift your arm enough to place it somewhat gently next to the grape juice.

Letting your weight fall back again with a groan, you let yourself slide to the side until your right shoulder hits the seat next to you. For a moment, you stay that way with your feet on the ground and your upper half lying down, because you find it strangely comfortable and a nagging pain curses sweetly through your torso.

But you give in to the urge to sprawl out completely soon enough. Moaning, you lift your legs and shift a little, stretching and moving, until finally your head is rested on one armrest and your calves on the other. One could assume you would find Reid's couch too small or something, but beat as you are, you cannot concentrate on anything other than the ache in your back. Kind of pleasurable.

You hold your breath, turning to your back and staring at the ceiling that reflects the greenish light around you dimly. As you exhale you feel shrunken, both mentally and physically. The TV casts shadows on your face, glowing bluish on your skin, and it draws your eye. Turning your head, you roll over to your side and settle to either look without watching or fall asleep along the way.

In retrospective, it is abundantly clear that you go for the latter. Who would have thought?

The drama displaying in front of you disappears behind too heavy lids and you don't see whether or not the one blonde lady actually gets slapped by the other blonde lady. The last thing you are really truly aware of is a blur of too bright faces that move their lips too fast with no sound. You raise your arm to cover your eyes and somehow, you turn away from the screen in that process.

Breathing slowed down, body heavy and numb with tiredness and trapped somewhere in that state of almost sleeping, you don't know how much time actually has passed when you think you hear something that sounds like Reid's bedroom door sliding open. There are two or maybe three footsteps you might as well be imagining, but nothing follows afterwards, so it was probably really just your dazed mind. After a minute or so, you hear them again, though. Soft, so soft footsteps.

But you cannot bring yourself to react to them. You ignore them, arm still covering your eyes, pressed to the back of the couch. Something, someone is near you, you can sense it and you should be alerted immediately, but you are at Reid's and you adjusted the door chain, and a weight lowers itself on you. From your feet up to your shoulders, and the smell of fabric conditioner reaches your nostrils.

A blanket.

"Lift your head," your hear Reid's voice, words so low that they are barely even a whisper anymore.

It is unexpectedly difficult to comply to his order, though, and you groan as you try. Warm fingers from someone who stands behind you sneak beneath you, cupping your jaw and raising your head for you to shove a pillow between you and the armrest. Warmth is growing all around you, engulfing you, making you aware of how cold you just have been.

Reid's fingertips slide across your cheek and his other hand sort of strokes your shoulder as he pulls away slowly, and you grab that one before it can disappear completely.

He halts.

You pull him back, almost tucking his hand under your chin, and you wouldn't do something like that if you would be more awake. But you aren't, you are half asleep, your body tingling with the need to pass out and give in already, and your nose skims his wrist. His skin is soft against your lips.

Maybe he thinks you are sleeping and acting without being aware of it. And maybe he is right. Your eyes are closed and you could just as well be dreaming. Or hallucinating. He tries to loosen your grip with his other hand without waking you up. You make a sound, a growl perhaps, and he stills again.

"Come on, let got," he says a little louder now. "You need to sleep." You know that, and you almost do. Still, you don't let go of his hand. You don't want to. And when you hear him ask, "You okay?", all of a sudden, he sounds worried.

You take a deep breath and roll on your back, stretching your muscles. He has given up on getting his hand back, and somehow, you end up on your other side, with him crouching in front of you, blocking out the flickering light from the TV. He wouldn't normally do that, like you wouldn't do that normally, either. Holding on to him that stubbornly, that is. Right now, though… oh hell, you don't know.

"Seriously, what's wrong?" he insists. "You're starting to freak me out."

Finally, you open your eyes, and Reid's face is close. So very close. The greenish light gleams in his eyes which are huge and concerned and only a little red from the previous hours of sleep. Stupid, deranged, exhausted as you are, you reach out for him with the hand that still holds his. He doesn't draw back.

It shouldn't freak him out to find you here. It doesn't happen for the first time, after all. More often than not, it is the other way around, true, but sometimes, you come crashing here, too. And somehow, Reid always knows when you do. Maybe he hears it. Maybe he senses it. But you know for a fact that he notices you sleeping here – because every morning, you awake with a pillow and a blanket.

Reid doesn't have them stored away somewhere where you could get them easily. He keeps them in the closet in his bedroom and you would have to risk to wake him up if you would try to do so. So you don't and you could live with it that way. But still, you awake with them in the morning, because this is just what Reid does.

For you.

"Can't I come over and take a nap without freaking you out?" you murmur, seeing the answer already in his eyes, in the way he looks at you in concern and disbelief. Of course you could, maybe, but you don't and you cannot do it because you and him never worked that way. It takes tragedies and wandering minds and psychos for him to come to you and for you to come to him, and, "Clooney got in a fight," you tell him.

His brows furrow immediately, and what has been a mixture of concern and disbelief is now pure worry, full force. "Is he alright?" he asks, and then, "Are _you _alright?"

"Yeah, 'm fine," you mumble. Worried about your boy but physically unharmed.

"What happened?" he wants to know, voice hushed and words soft, and suddenly, it is not only you who is holding his hand. He holds yours as well.

And as you notice that his other hand rests on the edge of the couch to hold him upright, so close to your face, you tell him what happened. You tell him how you took Clooney out for a walk after you got home, how it was already pretty dark and how he was twitchy with energy. You tell him how you came across another jogger with his dog, how something you don't even know went terribly wrong and how the dogs ended up locking jaws. How you rushed to the next possible veterinarian and how, after everything that happened tonight, you eventually came here.

"They kept him overnight," you finish tiredly, staring at his blunt fingernails on the hand you are not holding while moving your fingers slightly in his grip. "If he makes it, he'll make it. If he doesn't, he won't." It is as simple as that. It makes you nervous, because it is either or, nothing in between. "They wouldn't let me wait there, told me to go home." You didn't exactly obey to that, you think, but you chose the closest thing next, after you made a little detour to get changed. That goes unsaid. "I have to wait 'till eight o'clock before I can take him home."

_If _you can take him home. _If _he makes it through the night.

Reid is silent for a moment or two. The inner edges of his lips are pulled between his teeth, making them look thin even though they are kissably full. You stretch a finger and it touches his chin. He looks down at it, lowers his head, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by it. Neither by your fingers still wrapped around his.

"If you can, get some sleep," he says. And maybe he knows that, by now, it doesn't take much for you to do so anymore. "We'll talk about that in the morning. I'll wake you up in time, alright?"

"'right," you breathe, eyes sliding shut again. Reid removes his hand from your grasp and it feels like he pulls the covers a little higher, tucking you in like a child. A firm, gentle stroke over your shoulder, a whispered "Good night" and some rustling in front of you, and then it is dark and silent and you feel yourself drowning in a dreamless sleep, and it is easier to think that it is going to be okay when you lie here, still holding Reid's warmth in your hand.

It reminds you of something, you think. You remember feeling this bodily heaviness sometime in the past, getting practically pressed into the mattress beneath you. God, when was that? It seems ages ago, even though not even half a year passed since then.

You were somewhere in Ohio to chase a guy who burned the houses of middle-aged men that resembled his former employer (whom he blamed for losing everything after getting fired). You don't know why it had to be at a time where convention after convention took place in the town you were investigating. But it turned out that it was nearly impossible to find a hotel you could stay in. Every single room was booked and overbooked and in the end you could consider yourself lucky that you got three rooms at last.

In three different hotels.

Two of them single rooms.

But at least, each with a queen-size bed. And of course it were JJ and Emily as the girls and you and Reid as the boys who shared not just rooms but beds as well. The unit chief and the senior profiler deserved at least separate beds to sleep in. And it isn't like this would have ever been a problem for you. To share beds with Reid.

Because with all trust issues you have, all experiences you made and all the burdens you carry around with you… well, over the years you have come to think that, if it is going to work with someone (sharing permanently, trusting implicitly), that someone can only and will have to be Reid.

So when you finally made it to one of said rooms and closed the door behind you, you made a straight line for the bed, stiff-legged and with sore feet, and simply plopped onto the mattress, so hard that it made the bed frame creak. And Reid groan.

Reid who was lying beside you on his belly, face turned away from you, arms shoved under his pillow.

The only light was shining from a lamp on the bedside table next to Reid. Every bone in your body ached as you heaved yourself from your stomach to your back, still fully clothed, even with your shoes on, and somehow you ended up that sprawled out that your arm rested kind of half across Reid's shoulders. It wasn't urgent for your team to find a hotel, but after two days without sleep you really needed to get some rest.

"I'm home, darling," you muttered grinningly, and as you heard him hum grumpily next to you you snorted, a bubbling chuckle in the back of your throat that would have been a hearty laugh in any other case. Moving your arm a little as if you would try to rub his stiff neck with your wrist, you turned your head a little more in his direction. "Been quite some time, righ'?"

You meant, of course, that it was quite some time since you last had to share beds on a case and Reid, of course, understood.

"Yeah, and you _still_ haven't learned to get changed before you come to bed," he mumbled. And then you really felt his hand on your hip how it tried to shove you away and out of bed.

You actually gave a laugh at that, because something in that statement always strikes you as odd (as it did back then) but you were completely worn out so you didn't argue. You toed off your boots and your socks, shook off your jacket and peeled off your shirt, and after quite some struggle with your pants you crawled under the blanket in nothing but your shorts. "Feelin' better?"

"Uh-huh, terrific," he murmured and moved a little, not to make room for you but to get comfortable. The days where he crept to the edge of the bed and almost fell over have long since passed.

"Great." The worst part of sharing beds this size is probably that you often have to share blankets as well. This is not always bad because, just like then, the space beneath it can already be pleasantly preheated. But Reid (when completely beat) has a nasty habit. "Try not to steal all the blanket to yourself."

He is a blanket hogger.

"Only if you don't start snoring," he sayd with muffled words. You would have liked to see his face, you think.

"Then you don't start kicking me."

"Then don't occupy all the bed as your own."

You didn't reply to that at first and simply moved your leg over to Reid's side, and Reid gave a warning tug at the blanket. He tugged a little harder after a few moments of silence and had almost the whole blanket pulled to him before you laughed and left his space bubble and surrendered.

"Deal! Deal, deal, deal," you said, sighing the last word, and got back what was rightfully yours (your half of the blanket). Surely, there would have been more blankets somewhere in the closets, but you were too tired to care and it wasn't really all that bad.

Reid didn't ask if he should turn off the light and you didn't have to say that no, it's fine. You simply wished each other good night and he shifted so that his back was facing you. You did the same, turning your back towards him, and it felt quite nice to feel Reid's warmth flooding your skin. And you really cannot remember the last time you actually could bear having someone beside you in bed without seeing them. Before Reid, that is.

And this is how and when your dream began.

It was remarkably unspectacular for a dream, but maybe just what you needed at that time. And you cannot say what happened, because, since it was a dream, you forgot almost everything, of course. But the important parts seem to come back to you from time to time and you don't remember how you turned over again but you do remember that, somehow, your arm snuck around Reid's waist and you ended up spooning him from behind like there was no tomorrow.

He held your hand, you know. He threaded his fingers with your own and pulled your arm around him tighter, and in the end you were lying half upon him with him half beneath you, and his skin grew hot with your breath against his nape.

There was nothing sexual about it. One of your legs was lying between his, but it was sleeping in the most innocent of ways, more intimate than anything, and if it would be to have happened for real, you think you might have crushed him with your weight. But since it was only a dream and your thumb never stroked up and down the space above Reid's navel in lazy movements for real, it was probably okay to feel heavy and relaxed content with him.

And anyway, it was just a dream. No harm done. You are sure it was just a dream. Because when you awoke the other morning, you were lying on your stomach, facing the opposite direction with your arm that (in your dream) was not curled around Reid now dangling over the edge of the bed. Reid himself was already taking a shower and getting ready for the day, and you are sure that it was only a dream.

Despite the fact that you have seen Reid unconsciously touch his abdomen where (in your dream) your thumb, while still and always holding his hand, drew patterns on his skin.

You never talked about it (because it was only a dream, so of course you didn't talk about it), but it is sort of nice to be able to think about something like that instead of worrying about Clooney nonstop. It is a fact that you cannot do anything for him right now, that he has to make it on his own, and it is unnerving.

It drives you up the wall. It makes you restless from within.

Perhaps it is stupid to get that worked up because of a pet dog. But then again, it is about _your_ boy, isn't it? You got him when he was only just a pup, barely able to leave the bitch that bore him. The weakest of his litter, he didn't stand a chance there and you took him and raised him ever since, raising him even now. But apparently you haven't done a good job, for you now have to fear that his folly of youth might cost too much.

And it is not even his youth anymore, he isn't all that young anymore. He should know better by now, silly thing. Silly like his daddy, right? To get worked up over something… something so…

Bacon.

What? You can smell bacon. Fried eggs, too. What the hell? What kind of dream does this become? You take a deep breath and the scent only becomes more intense, the taste almost ghosting over your tongue.

How frustrating. Dreaming of Reid without really touching him and then dreaming of bacon and eggs and finding yourself unable to reach out for it because you cannot move. The smell of coffee only makes it worse, or at least you think it makes it worst. At first.

But actually, it makes you realize that you are not dreaming anymore, in fact not even sleeping by now. The appetizing smell of breakfast is real. You hear the clicking of a spoon against a mug and the creak of a chair being occupied. Pulling your head out from under the pillow, you blink and jerk yourself to awareness as you notice that the bright light around you doesn't come from one too many lamps.

It is daylight.

"What – "

The question dies on your tongue and you blink into early sunshine. Reid's apartment doesn't have curtains in the living room to block it out, and judging by it, it must be almost ten in the morning.

You put your phone and your wallet on the coffee table in front of you before you kind of passed out on Reid's couch. The wallet is gone but the phone is still there, and as you grab it to check the time you can see that you have been right. The display says 09:37.

This is not possible, you think. You set the alarm for 7 o'clock, long before you arrived at Reid's.

Standing up too fast, blood rushes to your feet and makes you feel dizzy. You take a teetering step, frustrated because you don't know what is going on, and you see Reid sitting on the kitchen table between the kitchenette and the living room, a cup of coffee in his hand.

"Reid?"

Your voice sounds hoarse and accusing and you clear your throat to wake yourself up a little more. You feel rested but you sure could use a few more hours of sleep.

"Oh, good morning," he says surprised after swallowing the sip he just took.

"Good morning? What's going on, man, what time is it?" you ask, rubbing your face.

"It's, ah…" He looks down at his wristwatch sitting over his sleeve. He is already fully dressed in a white shirt with tiny black dots and dark gray slacks, and he looks so awake as if he has been up for hours already. "It's about half past 9."

"What?" So your phone didn't lie.

He sets his mug down as you stare at him, rubbing his arm uncomfortably. "I made breakfast," he says a little unsure, pointing with a nod at the stove where a pan holds said fried eggs and some bacon. "I was about to wake you up."

"What the hell, Reid?" You sound upset and, if you would have to be honest, you _are_ upset. "Why didn't you wake me up, if you've got the time to make fucking breakfast, man? I _told _you I had to get Clooney at eight and you said you would wake me. This is important, man!"

Reid swallows and it makes you almost instantly feel bad, and you turn away because you don't want to feel bad right now. You have a right to be angry, because he said he would wake you and he didn't and your alarm didn't go off even though you set it which must mean what Reid turned it off. So nobody informed you about how your boy is and you didn't inform anyone that you would come later and, "Fuck!," you bark as you stomp out of the living room to get your shoes in the corridor.

"Morgan!," Reid calls after you but you don't listen. Dammit. "Morgan… please, come on…"

"No, Reid, this – " You turn around, at a loss for words, and you cannot believe that Reid, _Reid of all people_, let this happen. "Don't tell me you're gonna do something when you – God, you made breakfast? You were supposed to wake me up when you tell me – "

"I know and I was!," he says. He looks as if he wants to stand up but he doesn't and you can only guess what it is that keeps him in place now. "I was about to do that but – "

And with his 'but' you stop listening. Patting your pockets, you check if everything is in place. You got your phone, but your wallet is still missing. Did it fall off the table after all? You look beneath it and your spine cracks and you look around the table, too, but there is nothing.

"Have you seen my wallet, Kid? I need it, I gotta go," you say as you make a few steps back to the kitchen. Reid doesn't move and he doesn't have to. You wallet lies right next to him on the dining table, opened, with a tiny white card just sticking out of its usual place.

The business card of the vet.

"I really was about to wake you," he says, almost defending himself. "I'm sorry if you feel like I've decided over your head but I thought there was no reason to wake you sooner."

"What, why not?" you inquire, because he know, you told him you would go to get Clooney around eight in the morning. You feel a headache starting behind your eyes.

"I, you know, I'm sorry if I overstepped a border or something, I know this is kind of private and non of my business and I didn't want to be nosey or anything, I just – " He raises a shoulder helplessly. " – I wanted to help you somehow, I guess."

"Help me?"

He stuffs the card back into place and hands you your wallet. You take it without any hint of anger, because it somehow vanished as soon as it came and ended up in smoke. It is the effect Reid always has on you.

"I called the vet," he says. "I'm sorry, I know it has nothing to do with me and I'm sorry, I just wanted, I, I asked about his condition. Clooney's," he clarifies, and you step closer and he talks faster. "He took the narcotics well and he's gonna be alright, they said, and you might want to be a little careful that he won't frolic around too much with the stitches and all, of course, but he's gonna be fine."

For a moment, it is completely silent around you. You can see Reid swallow again and you can feel yourself swallow, too, as you let sink in what he just told you.

"How do you know that? You're not even allowed to get any information," you reply because you don't know what else to say.

"I'm a doctor," is all he answers, but of course, that isn't a reason at all. "You're not mad, right?" Uncertainty makes his voice slightly wavering.

And how could you be mad at him, when he lifted such a heavy burden with such ease, just by doing what he did and saying what he said? What would you have done, if you went there just to be told that you boy didn't make it?

"You can take him home around ten, maybe a little later," he offers. "As I said, I was about to wake you."

Your body reacts faster than your mind, and before you know it, you have closed the gap between you and him and your hand found his hair and you press your face into the crook of his neck. It is all kinds of awkward because you have to bend down in an odd angle and one hand rests on the back of his chair. A strange hug. But you feel like you have found your balance again for the first time since yesterday evening.

"Thank you," you breathe into his locks, smelling his shampoo before the food, feeling the heat radiating from him. Thank you, because you really were afraid of losing your boy.

Reid puts his hand on your arm somewhere near the elbow, the only part he can reach without twisting his limbs all that awkwardly. "It's alright," he murmurs, his voice muffled because of your shoulder pressed against his lips. His hand pats you, strokes you, then stills completely after a while.

You should pull away now, Derek, because this slowly begins to border the strange part of awkwardness, where it gets uncomfortable. But you are so filled with the simplest of relief that you seem to be miles away from any kind of awkwardness.

When you finally start removing yourself from him, it is probably just because you got to get your boy home. Your hand moves from the back of his head down to his neck and you want to press a quick kiss to his ear, not even a peck, really. But you kind of don't get it right and you miss his ear and suddenly, the kiss lands on his temple. And there is a second kiss (you have no clue were that came from) and you press it to the corner of his mouth without thinking. His lips are slightly parted and warm coffee flavor greets you there. It catches both of you off guard.

It wasn't meant to be like that and it is sort of ridiculous that a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth seems so much more intimate than many a kiss you shared with a girl where it was obvious which direction it would take from there on. This here is nothing, not even elementary school, but it brings you closer to him than you ever have been with most of the girls that aren't even acquaintances anymore today.

Get a grip, man, for crying out loud!

Pulling away, your fingers glide through his curls and you cannot bring yourself to really meet his eyes. Not that there would be much to meet, anyway – Reid is looking at the table before him, one hand still gripping the mug, the other one lying limply next to it.

You have no time to explain, though, no time to find some flimsy excuses for him or yourself. Your boy is waiting. Grabbing your wallet, you bid your goodbye as lightheartedly as possible, saying "thank you", saying "gotta go", and finally actually taking your leave. You can think about it when everything is back to normal again. For now, you have to store it away in your mind.

"What about your breakfast?" Reid calls after you, but without any attempt to see you to the door. He wouldn't be fast enough anyway, for you are already halfway gone.

"Another time, Kid, thanks. I gotta get going," you call back. Wallet, phone, car keys, and you all but jump into your boots, with an energy you didn't know could be evoked just by hearing that your dog is alright or at least going to be.

"Imma give you a call when we get home, yeah?" You open the door and it closes behind you without any response from Reid. He will understand, though, you are sure of that. After all, he knows how much that dog means to you, even more so than you do, apparently.

He will understand your relief, the hurry you are in.

But nevertheless, you don't call him, not once all weekend, and when you see each other on Monday again, maybe the awkwardness you are finally aware of will be, at last, nothing but an imagination, a shadow of a memory that has never been more than a pale ghost in the first place. And when another case is announced and Hotch tells you it is "Wheels up in ten", every thought of it whatsoever will vanish.

You don't talk about the kiss, the almost-kiss, the thing that happened what seems a long time ago. It becomes a distant memory, a dream like the one where you are holding Reid, a joke, and you don't know whether to be glad or frustrated. Whenever there is this certain spark lighting up Reid's eyes, he will turn away before you can recognize it for what it actually really truly is.

Didn't you want to be straightforward the next time, because you know, you hope, you wish that he is just waiting for it?

* * *

So, yeah. Kind of rushed, wasn't it?

Part two of three is done, one more part to go. We'll have to see whether our pretties will be able to face the ugly truth (ugly, please, I really think that would be great) or they will continue tip-toeing around each other like that. Let's hope for the best with those guys.

Oh, and I really had to ask a friend about Morgan's whereabouts after he isn't unit chief anymore. I needed to know whether he stays in his own office or goes back to the bull pen. And when I got my answer I was kind of disappointed. Am I the only one who is a little sad that he didn't go back? I've hoped for something differend, I guess. But oh well, that's what fandoms are for, right?

A big thank you to all of you who took their time and left a review. As always, they really made my day! =D

Hope to see you soon!

Bluey


	3. This heart to break

Well, hello there!

It took me quite some time to finish this, but that's what you get when life interrupts. This chapter here is pretty quiet but I hope you will like it at least for the fact that it settles things, kind of. Not to mention that this is still Slash, I mean, that's not gonna change anymore.

So, have fun.

* * *

_**You can have this heart to break. **_

O~O

Clooney's recovery goes exceptionally well.

It doesn't take long for the stitches to be removed and the wound to almost fully heal, and in general, everything goes better than expected. There won't be any permanent damage. Clooney is mostly as jumpy and energetic as ever and apart from a blank spot where the fur just won't grow again and Clooney's sudden aversion for too big dogs that cross his path after sunset, nothing would indicate that anything like that incident ever happened.

The bald spot. The slight hesitance when it comes to certain other dogs. And the awkwardness that lingers between you and Reid ever since.

You sigh and lean back in your chair, rubbing your eyes that burn with tiredness. You wouldn't have thought Clooney's accident would have that much of an impact on your relationship with Reid. But then again, it is not Clooney's fault things are so messed up between the two of you but your own stupid ass slip that grazed a border without really crossing it.

It is barely perceptible at first glance, because most of the time you act pretty normal around each other.

Needing to stretch you muscles, you stand up and take a few steps in your small office. Walking around a little, moving your arms and legs, you can see through the blinds how Reid closes the file he was working on, puts his pen aside and pushes his hair out of his face. He sits very upright for a long moment, staring down while holding his breath, and you use that moment of his stillness to get out of your office.

He exhales and raises his head to look at you for the briefest instant, and you can see that he is ready to shut down everything. Leaning against the railing, you watch how he turns off his computer, stands up and grabs his messenger bag.

"I'm out," he says to no one in particular and looks at nothing, even though you are the only one left in the bull pen with him.

Prentiss went from the jet straight to her car to head home. You and Reid decided to get over with writing the report for the latest case as long as everything is still fresh, so that you can close the matter along with the file for good. Hotch and Rossi are hiding in their offices, JJ and Garcia went home soon after Emily took off, and that left Reid alone in the bull pen.

"Need a ride, Kid?" you ask casually while stretching the muscles in your back and gripping the railing firmly.

Normally, that wouldn't have been a question. And normally, the answer would be predictable. It is now as well, but not the way it used to be. "No, I'm good, thanks," is what he answers, declining politely but undeniably. "Have a good night, man."

"You, too," you say, a little dumbfounded, but most of all, you are something in the lines of disappointed and unsurprised.

His lips twitch, a smile that is barely visible and doesn't even reach his eyes. Your gaze follows him all the way through the corridor until the doors of the bull pen swing close behind him, and you didn't notice you were holding your breath but you are. Slowly, you release the air in your lungs and shake your head – you cannot help it.

Seems all pretty normal, right? Well, it isn't by far, but only if you look closer. _Closer _as in _beyond the working relationship_.

Until now, Reid didn't come over again. That is quite some time. Well, maybe it isn't all that long, considering that you just finished three cases in a row and still cooling down from the latest one. It has been close to four weeks now. You haven't been at his place, either. And really, it might not be that long, but since this (whatever it is) started, there have never been four weeks without at least having dinner together once in a while.

Sighing, you scrub your face with your knuckles.

Well done, Derek, really. All this time, all those months and years you try so hard not to screw things up between you and him, and suddenly, _boom_, just like that it happened.

It is really bizarre how Reid can laugh with Prentiss in one moment and just when you come into view, his smile falters and he averts his eyes and has to excuse himself. Not right away, of course, he doing it far more subtle, every time. But sooner or later someone has to pick up on how you aren't able to act normal around each other outside of working cases and attending meetings.

Somehow you screwed up, Derek, and you need to fix this. Not only because you work amongst a team of profilers and chances are that they pick up on it sooner rather than later. But because you miss him. Not even as something extraordinarily romantic but simply as your friend. But how are you supposed to fix this when the other half of your problem refuses to face you properly?

You barely chase Clooney out of your bed anymore. You shouldn't give in to his bad habits but since he got injured he seems to be in need of a lot of love, more than before, and apparently there is no need now to keep that space free. No one is going to take his place anytime soon, it seems.

Who would have guessed that Reid could fill that much room in your life? Feels kind of empty now, doesn't it?

Actually, man, that is pretty pathetic.

Stop acting like school boys and get yourselves together, for heaven's sake. You are friends and you should be able to talk about something that didn't even really happen. Seriously, what _did _happen to mess things up like that? In a rush of joyous relief you kissed him on the cheek. Wow. And? That is nothing to get that worked up about and a few years ago, you wouldn't have let this happen. To over-think and analyze things is Reid's job, not yours. Your job is to act.

So when you enter the bull pen the next morning, you decide that Reid avoided you long enough.

Prentiss is already fetching the first coffee for today and Reid is sitting at his desk with a cup of his own. Business as usual. But what is indeed unusual, at least compared to the past few weeks, is that Reid looks up as you enter the bull pen. And meets your eyes. And holds your gaze all the way to the flight of stairs that leads to the upper offices.

Huh. Well, maybe he has made the same decision. That is has been long enough. That you need to act now. This is… good, you guess.

The debriefing for the case you just returned from yesterday goes quietly and without any disturbance. You gather in the round table room, voices are low and calm, weariness still evident in everyone's faces. Reid holds a mini-lecture about the influence of fictional characters on early childhood development, and especially Prentiss, gripping the back of her neck softly, eyes small and lips slightly parted, hangs on his every word.

"It must be awesome to have you tell bedtime stories," she says when he is finished, and everyone laughs quietly at it. "Seriously," she says to everybody around and it is obvious that the meeting has reached its end.

"Good job, everyone," Hotch says and in a choir of chairs that scratch the floor, paper rustling and shoes shuffling the team is dismissed.

"Maybe you should ask him sometime," you hear Rossi say as he and Emily leave the conference room.

"Maybe you'll get lucky and he'll even tuck you in," JJ adds with a grin.

"Along with some snuggles?" Garcia asks jokingly and makes JJ beside her giggle and Prentiss in front of her roll her eyes.

"You guys are aware that I can still hear you, right?" Reid asks behind them, but the good natured joke is nothing more than that and they can all laugh about it as they attempt to clear out.

"Hey, uh, Reid," you call and while everyone else takes their leave, Reid pauses in his step and turns around to face you, really face you, for the first time in weeks, maybe. The girls look at you with curious faces until JJ urges them away. Hotch and Rossi exchange glances for the briefest instant, before they decide to grant you some ignorance. You two are left behind and left alone and Reid takes a half step back as you seem to get a little too close.

"Yes?" he asks, trying not to sound too cautious.

'I didn't want to make you avoid me,' 'I think we need to talk about what happened last time because I have no idea what it was,' 'If you tell me what I did wrong, then maybe I could do it right next time,' you think.

"I need a file," you say.

Reid blinks and his gaze flickers past you as if he expects some kind of trick played on him with your words. "A file?" he asks then, turning his face away from you ever so slightly.

"Yeah, I – " If you think about it, that might not be all that stupid, after all. Maybe a talk like that is better held in your office where you are at least somewhat in private. "The Costravo-case? I need to look something up, so…"

"So you… need the file," Reid concludes. You simply nod and a moment of silence stretches uncomfortably between you, until Reid clears his throat. "Alright, uhm, I can – " He rubs the spot above his left eyebrow. "Yeah, I'll get it and drop it off for you."

"Thanks, Kid."

He lifts both his eyebrows and stretches his lips into a thin smile, nods and disappears. You exhale slowly, releasing the awkwardness from inside you that made your muscles stiff.

Reid is already at his desk, going though all the stuff there, when you make it outside and Emily says something that you cannot hear and that makes him pull a face towards her. Your sisters always made the same face Prentiss makes now in return.

When Reid meets you in your office, it is sooner than you have expected. You only ever sat down mere moments ago before a knock on the door announces him and he steps inside, holding more files than just the one you asked for.

"Hey," he greets you as if you would see each other for the first time today. You stand up again to meet him halfway and he hands you a file that reads _Richard Costravo_. "Here you go."

"Thanks." You grab it and flip through it with unseeing eyes, simply to have something to look at other than his face. Don't stare, Derek. And for heaven's sake, don't act like a high schooler in front of his crush.

"Is something wrong?" Reid asks suddenly and you look up to him. "With the file, I mean? I mean, why do you need to – "

"Oh, no, not at all, it's all good," you say. "I just wanted to check something, that's all." Actually, you didn't but you needed an excuse to lure him in here. The _Costravo_-file was the first thing that came to mind, because you know he was working on it. He doesn't need to worry about his job performance, but before you can come to fulfill the purpose of him being here, he already bids his goodbye. "Hey, wait, wait up," you say and grab his arm before he can sneak out again. "Listen, Kid, maybe we really should – "

"Rossi's waiting," he interrupts you, hastily, apologetically. "Rossi awaits me, we're signed to hold a lecture at John Jay College, we need to prepare."

"Oh." You let go if his arm. "Yeah, sure, go ahead, it's alright." Bad timing, man, nothing you can do about it. "And thanks for Costravo," you say and bump the folder against his forehead.

He drops his gaze and smiles, the first genuine one you have seen from him in days. A shame that he has to go now, but you don't stop him this time when he attempts to take his leave. You turn away when he does, rolling up the file that you don't even need.

The door opens and Reid lifts his head. "Maybe we – " You swirl around at his words, just to see him look away again. "Never mind." And he is gone.

You don't see him for the next three hours. Locked away with Rossi and working on how to entertain a bunch of college freshmen for about ninety minutes, while you pore over your own stuff, it might not be all that surprising, though. It is a slow day at the bureau and the whole team is scattered over the place. Necessary, from time to time.

Somewhere along your paperwork, you run out of coffee. That is okay for about half an hour, but when you countersign a report and your eyes graze the useless _Costravo_-file, you put your pen aside, rub your dry eyes and get up to get a refill.

As though by chance, Rossi and Reid finished already. At least, you read it that way with the door to Rossi's office wide open and the sight of a missing genius, as you pass it by. The universe seems to want you to cross paths desperately, for Reid is fixing himself a fresh cup of coffee.

What would you just do without that horrible brew?

"Mind to leave something for me?" you ask, standing in the doorway to the break room. He flicks a gaze over his shoulder, mumbling something of sure, no problem, and you put your mug next to his to let him top up your drink. Expecting the worst, you take a sip, just to realize that, "Wow, this is pretty good."

"My means were limited," Reid says, pouring some sugar into his coffee. "I tried my best, though," and there is playful determination in his voice.

You laugh at that, relaxing next to him with your mug on your lips. "You did good," you assure him and he smiles, and suddenly, the both of you are normal again. So easily. For a moment, you drink quietly, without any need to break that silence just now, and you remember why you let those things happen at that time.

Because you simply cannot resist him. Because he got under your skin so deeply that you don't know when it started or where it ends.

"How is Clooney?", Reid asks then.

"Oh, he's fine. He's doing really good. He's a little… careful now, I guess, since he got the stitches removed," you say. And he is, actually. Where he was always so excited and went overboard easily, he is now a little wary. "Misses you, though."

"Me? He does?" Reid looks amused.

"Sure he does," you say. "There's no one to spoil him right now and he probably hoped for you to do that."

"Morgan, you are aware that Clooney is a dog and not capable of scienter and intended actions, aren't you?" he asks, the corners of his mouth curling upwards, even though he doesn't want them to.

"I am but I'm not sure Clooney is," you say jokingly and his smile breaks through full force. Dazzlingly beautiful. There is no way you could not return it.

"You know, you could have done that, if he's so desperately waiting for it," Reid says.

"Nah, man, no can do. Give him an inch and he'll take a yard," you tell him. "I allowed him in the bed two times after the accident, and ever since he refuses to give this spot up." Reid actually laughs and makes a hard knot in your throat disappear. "I miss you, too," you admit, the words slipping past your lips unintentionally. And just like that, it is gone again.

The carefree glow around him vanishes as his smile falters and his eyes flicker across your face almost insecurely. He lowers his face, his shoulders hunched, and attempts to leave you again.

But it is enough already, isn't it?

"Reid." He doesn't react and you follow the steps he just took and grab his arm to stop him. "If I did something to make you uncomfortable – " a halfhearted try to pull away – "you need to tell me! Man, we're friends, I thought – " He jerks away again, really shaking you off this time, and you let him because holding him back is one thing but forcing him is another.

But he doesn't retreat like you thought he would. Instead he goes in a flash from rather far away to really close and even closer, until the only thought remaining is that, God, he is so very close. And then he stops being _close_ and is just _there_ and his mouth is pressed to yours.

Wow.

His hand grips your nape and reminds you that you are supposed to act. Eyes closed, you dive right into it. You know how to kiss and it would have been stupid to think that Reid himself doesn't. He does, but you would have never imagined that the first time you kiss him would feel like that.

It is fierce and harsh and bruising, you lean in but he pushes you back, and it strikes you that this right here seems almost angry. Reid is angry. Nothing gentle, nothing teasing about his tongue in your mouth. It is quick and dirty in a way you have never experienced and he tilts his head and tightens his grip and his fingertips dig into your neck.

You feel like you just started, like this thing is just about to get really good, when he pulls back and all but slams his hand on the center of your chest to stop you from following. And his eyes are burning, throttling you.

'This!,' they scream. 'This, okay? This is what it's all about! This is what you chose to ignore! I can't be just your friend anymore, so stop pretending like you wouldn't know what the problem is! _You _started it! And I can't just go back to normal!'

He tells you all this without even opening his mouth, but it takes so long for you to read it that he has enough time to close up right in front of you. You don't hold him back when he turns around and leaves, hissing quietly because he notices the coffee he spilled over his hand. But he doesn't do anything about it, walks around a corner and disappears. You are left behind with a coffee stain soaking your shirt and the feeling that what happened just now took a whole other route than you previously intended.

The wet spot on your hip grows cold rapidly and in a corner of your mind, you realize that you probably should change. Can't have you run around in a coffee drenched shirt, SSA Morgan.

But the walk back into your office runs very much on autopilot, all very mechanical, because your mind is completely empty, your thoughts filled with Reid. You don't cross paths with the genius on your way back (he is probably visiting the restroom), and then the door closes behind you and you yourself change your shirt with a spare one from your Go Bag.

That kiss just now, it was… you are at a loss. It was pretty rough, wasn't it? You had your fair share of rough in your life already. Not that you would complain because it can be exciting at times and that is not the point. The point is that you (of course) have thought about how it would be like to kiss Reid. And never was there an image that resembled what you have just experienced.

Or more accurate: an intensity like that didn't match a situation like that in your head. Sure, there were kind of rough settings in your mind and time and again your were _that _close to actually just go for it, when an Unsub hit too close to home and it wasn't sure for a moment or two that all of you would make it out safe and you were once more reminded that the time you have is limited.

But then there was always Hotch or JJ or Emily or even Rossi and it simply never… happened.

And now, just like that, the genius walks up to you and blows your mind like a friggin' hand grenade. And doesn't even give you enough time to react to it.

Unfair, isn't it? And congratulations, Derek, this thought comes only approximately half an hour later. Way to go. Taking a look at the clock on your desk, you decide that it is time to call it a day, to get a coffee with Reid somewhere and to settle this stupid thing once and for all. And you will be damned, if you let him or yourself talk you out of this.

Taking your jacket and your bag, you leave your office for good for today. Your eyes find Reid's desk in the bull pen immediately and they find it empty as well. Prentiss is still there, along with some others, and you casually walk up to her, bag hanging over your shoulder.

"Hey, princess," you say to get her attention and she looks up, seemingly glad to see you.

"Oh, a knight in shining armor," she sighs with a tired grin, cupping her chin in her hand. "You came to rescue me from these papery fiends?" she asks and waves a handful of case files and you chuckle.

"Those little fuckers are everywhere, huh?" You lean against her desk.

Another huge sigh, merging into, "Like you wouldn't believe it. Seriously, there's no end in sight." You laugh because you can relate to that. The same goes for you and probably everyone in the Bureau. Days like that are a little strange, because they make you feel like you are not directly needed to fight the evil out there. But you know for a fact that it is _always _there and you prefer to fight against it personally, face to face

"So, where's Boy Wonder?" you ask and nod to his desk that doesn't look like he is just off to the restroom somehow.

"Left already," Emily says with a shrug. "He and Rossi have this lecture tomorrow, so Hotch told them to go home and rest to prepare. You know the drill."

"Yeah, I know but rest from what?" It is not like you have much to do without being out there and chasing bad guys (and crazy chicks, occasionally). Right now, you feel slightly frustrated, for whatever reason.

"What do I know," she murmurs and you lift your ass off her desk. "Bu- whoa, wait! You're taking off, too? At least take some of mine, will you?"

You don't reach for the files she offers you. "Sorry, girl, I'm busy tonight," you say with a grin.

"Oh? Who's the lucky lady?" she calls after you and you wink at her, both of you knowing that you never tell (too much). But the smile she elicited from you falters almost the second you turn your back on her and head for the elevators. Really, that guy again. You bump a fist against the call button, thinking that no matter how clumsy Reid is at times, if he wants to, if he_ needs_ to, that Kid can be as quick as a flash.

Not on your watch, though. Most definitely not. Running away is not an option and Reid will accept this fact, when the both of you stop acting like some prepubescent kids.

Whipping your phone from your belt, you dial Reid's number blindly, sitting on number two of your speed dial after Hotch, but your call goes directly to voice mail and you hang up just as Reid's voice tells you to, "Leave a message after the signal." Dammit. Is he trying that hard to avoid you?

But wait. In the top left corner, the display shows a little note for the day. When you want to read it, you notice that there is nothing, it is only a little reminder without information, and it takes you just a second too long to realize that it is the third Wednesday of the month

That means movie night.

Shit.

There are certain unspoken rules for this thing called _movie nights. _On _movie nights_, you don't go to Reid. On _movie nights_, if at all, Reid comes to you. You don't know why he seems to feel better leaving the shelter of his home after the movie, but you are glad that he chooses to come to you. Once or twice, you remember, Reid told you that, actually, he wouldn't have a problem calling his _movie nights _by its real name in front of you, but somehow he thinks you would expect him to make some sort of a secret out of it. Or maybe he thinks he needs to protect you from too much knowledge. He tries to meet standards you never set in the first place

By now, though, he is used to it and his _movie nights _are just that, and everyone involved (in that case, it means you and him) knows what to expect.

Exhaling slowly, you lean your head against the cold surface of the elevator, feeling a lukewarm spot in the pit of your stomach. This is weird, and you don't think Reid will come to you tonight. Your plan to get some takeout and pay him a visit ended up in smoke.

Looks like you are damned after all.

The night is spent in the living room on the couch in front of the TV with beer and pizza and a tingling at the back of your neck. You rub that spot to get rid of it but it only crawls lower and settles between your shoulders. Anticipation for something that is not about to happen. And you know it. But still, you hope for something different and so does Clooney. He toddles from the living room to the kitchen and back, close to the front door and around the couch, until half an hour before you head off to bed he jumps on top of the couch and puts his head in your lap and dozes off.

It is just the two of you tonight.

And when you enter the bull pen the next morning, the sight of a missing genius is more prominent than it has any right to be. The day crawls by and your frustration grows bit by bit because nobody calls your team for help and you have to spend your time by reading case files and writing reports instead of catching guys who think they have any right to kidnap children or slaughter human beings or wallow in whatever way they choose in vigilante justice.

Garcia stops by for some chatting and around the early afternoon, when you get coffee with Prentiss, the senior profiler of the pack and the resident genius return to the fold.

"Predico a nuora perche suocera intenda," you hear Rossi say with all the raspy Italian charm his voice has to offer, and he strolls through the bull pen and holds a cup of some expensive looking coffee to go.

"Ye-" Reid, walking half a step behind Rossi, stumbles and almost drops his own cup of some expensive looking coffee to go. "Yes, that's exactly my point! And it's the same with urban legends, they are originally based on the same concepts."

"I _know_, kiddo," Rossi replies calmly. "I've read that book, too."

"Yeah, yo-you were actually coauthor, so it's only natural that you've read it," Reid says and blinks the way he always does when someone states the obvious for no clear reason.

"_Exactly_", Rossi says with a short but intense stare that tells Reid and everyone else that the matter is over.

Emily and you observed their entrance and emerged from the break room in the meantime to greet them. "Welcome back," Prentiss calls and Rossi nods and Reid shows her a quick smile. "How'd it go?" she asks and you gather around her desk while Reid heads for his own.

And Rossi tells how it was quite the usual, how the audience was quite interested in what they had to say and how he successfully prevented one of Reid's engineer jokes at the very last moment and therefore saved the progress of the lecture without too much awkwardness. Reid pulls a face, mumbling something about good jokes and that he is very well capable of those, and you think that it was nice to spare Reid the awkwardness because it is already enough of it waiting here for him.

After a few minutes the group disperses with Rossi in his office and Prentiss at her desk. Reid has long ago finished his coffee, throws the cup away and is about to get another one. You look at each other for a long moment, before you wordlessly take your leave as well.

Unexpected for Reid, it seems. "Uhm," you hear him hum behind you, bowing his head, and it holds all the restlessness you feel within you and every back and every forth of the past few days.

Stop acting like a brat, Derek. "Uhm," and you turn around to face him once more, "by the way, how was the movie?"

Reid blinks again and nods slowly. "Uh, yeah," he says, "it was… interesting. Instructive."

"Yeah?" He nods again, more at ease now, younger than before. "So you're okay?" He looks around for the briefest instant to see if someone might hear you. Then another nod and even without him saying yes, I'm fine you would have seen it in his face. It settles something inside you. "Good," you say, raising your mug to him. "Enjoy your coffee."

And you can almost hear the gears inside his head working overtime in a bid to figure out if there is any hidden meaning behind your words. Maybe he is wondering why you don't call him out on the stunt he pulled yesterday. Clearly, this is nothing that could be misunderstood.

But you return to your office without another word, taking a sip on the way, and you feel strangely calm as you sit down behind your desk again. All this not knowing where you two stand, all this fooling around, all this playing and backpedaling and wasting of too precious time will end today, on way or the other, and with that knowledge it is surprisingly easy to concentrate on your work and nothing else.

You do that until Penelope clocks out together with Lynch, until JJ leaves to get to her husband and son, until Hotch heads home for Jack. Prentiss and Rossi are gone, too, and when you leave your office with the file of Richard Costravo in your hands, there are not much agents left in the bull pen.

Just then, you see Reid walk through the glass doors, holding an armful of folders that belong in the archives (that is probably where he is heading right now), and you rush down the stairs, taking two steps a time, to catch up with him. Fortunately, he obviously stayed to catch up on the paper work he missed due to the lecture. Who would have guessed that it would take him that long?

"Hey, Reid," you call and push yourself through the swinging doors to follow him. He holds the folders in both his arms as he turns around. "Can I ask you something?" you want to know, waving _Costravo_ as a sign.

"Uh, sure, what is it?" At first, he looks confused and kind of worried that he might have made a mistake concerning his work. But when you come closer without slowing down, he takes an unconscious step back – not to run away but to make room for you. You get to him with just a few quick strides and raise the file he is trying to reach for up to your heads so that its back rests on your left shoulder and Reid's right, hiding your faces from too curious stares and too accurate CCTV cameras.

The folders he holds are pressed against your chest in an uncomfortable way and in one swift movement you cup his nape and there is a silent puff of hot breath against your lips as you pull him close. A sheet of paper could barely fit between you.

You hold his gaze and see astonishment but no resistance, no rejection, and as you press your mouth to his and feel him press back and your lips move against each other as if, God, you have practiced this for years already, you let go of the thought that this might not be okay. It wouldn't feel like it feels if it wasn't okay.

Hiding your faces behind _Costravo_, you walk him backwards one step and another until his back hits the nearest wall and Reid breathes a muffled sound into your mouth. You tilt his head, changing the angle, and his muscles stiffen under your fingers in an attempt to come closer, so very much closer, when you push your tongue into his mouth.

It is quick and hard and unequivocal. There is a sharp intake of breath through his nose and the grasp around the folders tightens like a vise. His knuckles go white and heat crawls up your neck and the back of his head is pressed to the wall as you end it with one last firm kiss on his lips.

They are slightly parted and his eyes are closed and he holds his breath and you can almost feel his need to stop right then and there. But no stopping, no backpedaling, no tiptoeing around any longer. It ends now, for good and all.

And Reid knows that, and his mouth closes and he starts breathing again and his eyes open and search for yours and they hold every bit of uncertainty you have felt over the past few days. Weeks. Months.

You lower the file and light falls back onto his face. He swallows and his Adam's apple bobs. "You get it?" you ask him, placing _Costravo_ on top of the folders so that he can take it back to the archives as well. You wanted to ask him something, right? Well, now you did.

His brow furrows and he licks his lips, saying, "I… I think so."

You take a step back and remove your hand from his shoulder. He doesn't meet your eyes again, looking like he is thinking so hard that there is steam about to come out of his ears, and you think he might need a few minutes so sort things out.

"I'm off then," you tell him, approaching the elevators. Mid-step, you turn around and continue walking backwards. "Don't overdo it," you call and he still doesn't move and you step into the elevator and the door closes and all that happens without him reacting in any way, until you cannot see him any longer.

This is it, right? Point-blank, short and crisp. You have made your point abundantly clear and now he can make whatever he wants out of it.

But you have to admit, Derek, you really have to admit that what you are doing here is pretty cheap. Pushing Reid to come to you even though it was Reid himselfwho made the first move to resolve this back and forth and gave it a general direction. But what would Reid have said if you were to just walk up to him and tell him that yeah, it is in a manner of speaking what you want, too, and that, from what you know, it is not very likely that you will cross paths with somebody who is going to get that close to you, to become that important to you again? Or at least, that you don't want anyone else to take that place, anyway.

And considering that actions are your forte and talking is Reid's strong point, considering that you two are profilers and considering that you have found weasel words for this as long as you can remember…

Maybe showing him that you want to blow his mind just as much as he blew yours isn't that wrong. Hopefully.

Clooney greets you excitedly at the front door, tail waggling and tongue dangling, and his urge to move seems to as bad for him as it is for you. So you get changed and get his leash and take him out for a jog. You are a little more careful now as well, keeping an eye not only on your surroundings but especially on other joggers with their dogs.

But everything goes well and when you return home, although you find it empty, you feel relaxed and a little more at ease, and Clooney is calmer, too.

The day ends with a hot shower, some reheated pizza from yesterday and a cold beer. You try not to be bothered by the fact that Reid didn't show up until now, and after Jason Bourne tells Pam Landy to get some rest because she looks tired (and you found that movie, even though horribly overblown and clichéd sometimes, to be kind of impressive and well done the first time you have watched it) you decide to do the same and call it a day.

Reid will come. You are sure of that. It is not possible that you have read him wrong all along. He will come. He just needs time.

But apparently not as much as you thought.

It is past midnight and your eyes open on their own accord. You are lying face down on your stomach, only in your shorts because you like how the sheets feel against your skin, and Clooney's ears twitch and a second later his head shoots up alertly, eyes fixing the open door in the dark. Another second goes by where you try to hear what Clooney hears and your body tenses involuntarily – it is instinct to expect the worst.

Then Clooney jumps off of the bed, leaving you once again after weeks of refusing to, and you imagine to hear the soft beep of your safety system – and there is not even a handful of people who know its combination. You breathe a smile into your pillow, contentment making your muscles go soft again.

And then, you wait.

That Reid has come here again is a step in the right direction, because by now you are actually very sure that you both are actually very aware of which direction that is. He wouldn't have come if this isn't what he wants, too. He wouldn't have kissed you. The question is whether or not he will come all the way to you tonight.

You would like that. But he doesn't have to. No need to jump the gun here. If he decides to take his usual place on the couch, maybe this is enough. But maybe, Derek, and you know that, maybe you should go down there and… talk? Or whatever would be appropriate for the situation.

But before you can get yourself to move you hear a tiny creak from the lowermost stair tread. It stops when hesitance kicks in and you imagine Reid licking his lips, because this is pretty much it, and what do you do when this goes wrong?

Then another creak, probably the seventh stair tread now (it is always the first and the seventh one, always has been from day one – you are used to it, it is part of your home, makes it feel cozy), and Clooney's paws how they scratch across the floor. With one eye, since half of your face is still buried in the pillow beneath it, you peek at your bedroom door wide open and see Reid's shadowy figure pass by. Clooney is confused as he automatically heads for the bed already but Reid doesn't follow.

You hear the sound of a light switch and after the hall is dusted with light for only a moment, the door of the master bathroom slides close. A snort and the left corner of your mouth curls into a smile, and you probably doze off again because the next thing you know is that Reid closes the bedroom door.

From inside.

Not all the way, it stays a little ajar so Clooney can leave if he feels like it. You see, of course Reid is _that _considerate, even towards your dog.

Surprisingly enough, though, he who refused for weeks on end to leave the bed doesn't even really attempt to take the other half of it now. His forepaws touch the sheets but Reid hums a no and after a few seconds of orientating in your bedroom he leads Clooney to his place on top of a folded blanket (he never was fond of things like dog baskets).

After that, and it is kind of amusing, Reid stands next to your bed and looks down on it, seemingly not knowing what to do with himself. He is wearing PJ's now, at least some pants, and a plain white shirt, and his head is lowered but he doesn't meet your eyes, maybe because he isn't aware of you being awake.

In a swift and almost jerky motion with your arm you shove the sheets on his half of the bed (or the supposed-to-be-his half of the bed or whatever) aside to signal that yes, this is very much the place where he is meant to spend the night. It makes him jump the tiniest bit, the muscles in his neck twitching.

"-t are you waiting for?" you mumble, a sleepy rasp tinting your voice.

Reid shakes his head and slides into the bed next to you, slowly, carefully, and you turn with his every movement until, when he is fully settled, you lie on your side, face to face.

His eyes are downcast while he arranges the blankets around himself and gets comfortable. Moments of too loud heartbeats and too quiet breathing pass and then he looks at you and there is this small feeling inside you that isn't all that small anymore and you think that this is going to be okay. And all kinds of better than just okay.

"I thought you're sleeping," he says, words low to match the darkness around you.

"How could I be sleeping when I know you're gonna be here?" you ask with a lopsided grin.

"You're always sleeping when I come here," he states, a shade of bitterness making his smile pale, and you see something in his features that you probably have felt, too, somewhere along the way. "And you didn't know I was coming here."

"No," you admit, "bu' I was hoping."

He looks like he is about to say something and you wait. Eventually, he hums, neither approving nor disapproving, a simple acknowledgement. You move your leg tentatively and it is encouraging that he doesn't pull back and in the end, he even meets you halfway to cross ankles with you.

And once you start to finally connect somewhere, everything else clicks into place and happens on its own and it is easy to just go with it.

A toothpasty kiss that is sweet despite the peppermint and totally not like before where it was about shaking you up, about proofing yourself, and you don't know what will await you at the end, but you are sure that, with Reid, it going to be pretty damn good.

So you are trying to close the gap between the two of you in every way possible, and your hand finds his and his fingers slip through yours and he breathes a smile onto your lips, small and careful. "This is okay, right?" he whispers.

"Feels like it, right?" you answer, the soft skin of your mouth grazing his as you speak.

"We don't need to rush," he says quietly and he pulls back ever so slightly, to make room, to show that he doesn't want to corner you, being considerate to the core.

"Four years and you call it rushing?" you joke, but you are touched nonetheless. You cannot remember the last time someone would let you set the pace, not because you appear like someone who would take the lead but because here you are _allowed _to pull the brake.

Reid isn't smiling anymore, and as he looks at you he is completely open, so much that it hurts. "We need to talk about this," he says because this is his way to protect both himself and you.

And, "We do," you say, you know you have to. But not tonight. His hair tickles your forehead and the bridge of your nose grazes his as his toothpaste breath ghosts over your lips.

Tonight is as good as it can possibly be.

* * *

And that was about it. I leave it to you to imagine what's gonna happen after they decide to give it a shot.

I'm writing two stories currently and I don't know which one will be here first. I want to have something in stock before I start posting it here, but I will be back, eventually. So let me know what you thing about this one here.

Ta ta for now.


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